Demon Inside, Part Three

He obviously hadn’t slept. He was wearing the same clothes, stained and grimy with dirt. His eyes were bloodshot and raw.

            He stepped forward. “You’ve got to help me!”

            I already had my phone out. “You have to go to the police. Right now.”

            “But I didn’t kill those women!” He kept his voice to a whisper. “The demon did!”

“And if you don’t turn yourself in he’ll kill more.” I put a hand on his arm. “And the cops might kill you.”

He stared at me, his bloodshot eyes betrayed. “Help me find a priest. Someone who can get this—thing—out of me!”

“I can do that.” I had Hawkins’ number. “But the police won’t give up. We could both go to jail.”

He yanked his arm free. “I hired you to help me!”

“You hired me to follow you. I did. I can’t help you with anything illegal. Even if—”

His face twisted. Darkened. His eyes glowed. “You . . .”

I backed away, frantically stabbing Hawkins’ number.

Walker—the demon—hit me in the face. I staggered back, my eyes watering, and managed not to drop my phone as he shoved my shoulder and jumped down the steps to the sidewalk and ran.

I spun, off balance, as Hawkins barked in my ear.  “Jurgen? Now what?”

“He was here. At my building. He’s running south toward Fullerton. I’m—” I ran, huffing and puffing. “Going after him. I tried to talk him into giving himself up, but he’s scared.”

“He should be. You be careful.”

“I’ll call . . . I’ll call you.”

“Sending squad cars now.”

Walker rounded the corner. I ran as fast as I could, trying to keep him in sight without pushing my body harder than it could take. I’m in my forties, not in great shape, and I don’t work out as often as I should. But Walker wasn’t doing much better.

I managed to find Rachel’s number as my phone bobbed in front of my eyes. “Hey, what’s—”

 “Walker,” I grunted. “He was here. I’m following him . . . up Fullerton. Cops on the way.”

“You idiot.” But I hung up before she could berate me further.

Walker dashed across the street, dodging cars that blared at him, and then into a coffee shop. He darted out two seconds later—possibly kicked out by a suspicious barista. He looked up and down the sidewalk, breathing hard, and then launched himself back across the street, again weaving between cars and cabs that honked, skidded, swerved, and expressed their displeasure.

I ran to intercept him, my heart pounding as I veered to avoid a nanny pushing a stroller. She flipped me the bird.  “S-sssory . . .” I stammered.

Walker pushed his way into a big Walgreens drugstore on the corner.

I called Hawkins. “Walgreens  . . . on  . . . Fullerton,” I panted, and hung up before he could yell at me.

Cashiers peered suspiciously as I pushed through the revolving door. I didn’t see Walker. “Where’d he go?”

A young African-American woman pointed. “Up there.”

An escalator. This store was a two-story behemoth, more department store than pharmacy. Walker could easily get lost in here. “Tell the cops when they get here.”

She blinked in alarm and reached under the counter—maybe for a button to summon the police.

But sirens already blared in the street. I headed for the escalator, which was mostly clear. I took two steps most of the way up, then paused to catch my breath behind an elderly man with a cane who ignored me. 

Walker was nowhere. I leaned over, hands on my knees, trying to decide which way he was most likely to run.

Shouting answered that question. I ran down an aisle of vitamins and herbal supplements toward the rear of the store, where a small food court was set up. Walker was standing in the middle of it while shoppers abandoned their sandwiches and drinks to get as far from him as possible.

I stepped forward, wondering what the hell I was doing. “Walker!” My voice trembled. “Walker!”

He looked up. His face flickered, and for a moment he was human again. “Y-you . . .” He blinked, not certain where he was.

We stood for a moment, staring at each other. Walker was terrified and desperate.

“Jeremy . . .” I held out a hand. “Calm down. Take a deep breath. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“I’m so . . .” He shook his head.

Then he spun around. Restroom doors waited behind him. With a grunt, he fled toward the men’s room.

I followed—just as voices shouted, “FREEZE! Hands where we can see them!”

The cops.

I lifted my arms, planting my feet wide on the floor. “He’s in there! Don’t shoot him!”

One cop ran around me to the men’s room door. The next other stood on my left side, staying four feet away from me. Both had their handguns out.

The cop next to me spoke without looking at me. “Don’t move, asshole.” He was tall, Hispanic, and broad in the shoulders.

His partner—shorter, white, in wire-rimmed glasses—grabbed the door handle and counted to three.

But before he could pull it open, Walker pushed through, snarling in rage. The demon was back.

The officer next to me pointed his firearm. “FREEZE! Stay where you are!”:

“Don’t shoot him!” My voice was hoarse. “He’s . . . unarmed.” I was about to say, “Possessed,” but I wasn’t sure that would be a compelling reason not to kill my (former?) client.

The smaller cop ducked back and managed to holster his handgun before Walker saw him. As Walker lunged forward, the Hispanic cop shouting another warning, the partner yanked something from his belt and pointed it. A Taser.

 Walker’s body jerked as if he was having a violent seizure. His face turned red, then white, and his legs gave out, sending him to the floor with a crash.

The cop near me moved up, still pointing his handgun. The other patrolman stepped forward with caution, leaned down, and quickly pulled Walker’s arm behind his back to snap handcuffs on his wrist.

“Thank you.” My knees shook.

The Hispanic cop glared at me. “Don’t move.”

“Tom Jurgen.” My mouth was dry. “Detective Hawkins knows me.”

“Shut up.”

I nodded.

“Tom?” Rachel’s voice behind me. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Staying quiet.” I kept my arms high.

She groaned. “Jerk.”

Hawkins met us downtown. “Jurgen.” He shook his head.

            “Tell me about it,” Rachel agreed with a sigh.

            The two cops took Walker to a high-security cell on a lower level—the same windowless, soundproof room the cops put vampires in when they caught one alive. A video camera monitored the room from a corner of the ceiling.

The cops left, leaving Rachel and me in the room with Hawkins and Walker.

            Walker was on a chair, hands cuffed behind his back. “It was him,” he moaned, rocking his head back and forth. “Not me. The demon.”

            “Demon.” Hawkins growled. “First vamps, now demons? I remember when our worst problem was gangbangers.”

            “What about Al Capone?” I asked.

            He glared. “Don’t be a smartass. What do we do with this guy?”

            I sighed. “Do you have enough to charge him?” I hated to ask.

            “Of course not. Just your word that he was on that beach when Lori Santos was killed. We might be able to get a DNA match from her skin, but that’s going to be a long shot. If he pleads insanity—”

            “You know that hardly ever works.” I remembered Sharon Marmont’s words. “I mean, so you might get him off the street and into an institution, but—”

            “That’s not fair!” This was Walker, as desperate as the demon, but more terrified than angry. “I didn’t do it!”

            “He’s right.” Rachel put her hands on her hips. “It was the demon.”

            “”The devil made me do it’ is not a defense.” But Hawkins pulled up a chair. Leaving Rachel and me to stand. I leaned against the wall.

            “Mr. Walker!” He leaned forward. “I’m Detective Hawkins, Chicago, PD. I’d like to ask you some questions.”

            Walker’s head hung forward, limp. “I didn’t do it.”

            “What do you know about the death of Lori Santos last night?”

            “I don’t remember last night. Parts of it.” He closed his eyes. “I was on the beach. It was cold.” He shivered, as if remembering the wind. “Then I was running.”

            “Did you kill that girl?” Hawkins kept his voice low.

            “N-no.” Walker trembled.

            “Who did?”

            His eyes closed. For a moment he looked as if he’d fallen asleep.

            Then he smiled, with the face of the demon. “I did.”

            He lunged forward, dragging the chair on the dirty tiled floor. He made it almost a foot Hawkins shoved him in the chest.

            The chair fell back, leaving Walker—or the demon—squirming and snarling on the floor, flat on his back.

            “Nothing can stop me!” Spit flicked from his lips. “Not you, or them, or anyone. I have the powers of Hell inside me.”

            “Yeah, yeah, your name is Legion, and you are many.” Hawkins stood up and shoved his chair back. “Guess you’re right, Jurgen.”

            Rachel jabbed me. “Try not to let it go to your head.”

            Hawkins pulled his phone from a pocket and tapped a key. “Yeah. Can you come down? Yeah, it’s what I thought.”

            “Who’s that?”

            Hawkins grinned. “You’ll see.”

            Walker was back. “Can I have a drink of water?”

            “In a minute.”

Five minutes later the door opened. A young man in plainclothes slipped a key card back into his pocket and walked in. He carried a black leather bag like an old-fashioned doctor’s.

            “Here he is.” Hawkins gestured to Walker. “Your subject.”

            “Hi! Tom Jurgen.” I held out my hand. “This is my associate Rachel.”

            “Hal Caffero. I’m a chaplain.”

            I raised an eyebrow. “The CPD has a chaplain?”

            “I offer counseling services. I’m an Episcopal minister. I’m also a cop.” He showed me his badge.

            I glanced at his bag. “And you perform exorcisms?”

            “When the need arises.” He set the bag on Hawkins’ chair and opened it up.

            “How many?” Rachel asked.

            He hung a silver cross around his neck. “Three.”

            “How’d they come out?”

            For the first time he hesitated. “Fine.”

            “Let’s get on with it.” Hawkins picked Walker’s chair up.

            “Patience.” Caffero sighed. “This may take a while. One procedure I handled took 20 hours.”

            He paused for a short, silent prayer, then looked at Walker. “What is your name?”

            “W-walker. Jeremy Walker.” He leaned forward. “Can you really—get this thing out of me?”

            “God can.” He took a wooden cross and a bottle of water from his bag.

            I glanced at Rachel. She rolled her eyes.

            Walker’s eyes zeroed in on the water. “Can I have a drink?”

            Caffero unscrewed the cap and poured some water in the palm of his hand. Then he flung it into Walker’s face.

            Walker screamed. “Ah! Goddamn you!’ His face twisted into the demon’s. “You’ll burn in Hell!”

            “Interesting way to start,” Rachel muttered.

            “You’ll go back to Hell.” Caffero held up his cross. “In the name of Jesus Christ our lord, I command you!”

            “I’ll go back when I’m ready!” The demon spit at Caffero’s shoes.

            Caffero ignored him, waving his cross back and forth and chanting a prayer.

            Hawkins crossed his arms. Rachel and I leaned against the wall.

            “If this is going to take 20 hours, I’m going to need a chair,” she whispered.

            I nodded. “And we’re all going to need a bathroom break.”